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  2. Linn Keller 12-29-10 Linn put his finger to his lips. Angela half-lidded her eyes, sank a little lower: her Daddy had spread a blanket in the snow and she was still in her dress, but she'd wanted to very badly to come with her Daddy, and now here she was beside him, belly down behind a little rise. Her Daddy worked a set of binoculars out of an inside coat pocket, staying as low as he could: he was not on a blanket and Angela knew he would get wet if he stayed in the snow like that much longer. She also knew that he was showing her something, and excited though she was, she could keep quiet, for she was becoming a Big Girl. He raised the binoculars, using both hands to steady them, elbows sinking in the snow: she saw his mouth widen a little and she knew he was seeing something. "The sun is just right," he whispered, his mouth an inch from her ear: he handed her the binoculars and pointed. Angela rose slowly, looked, blinked, squinted a little and then she saw them. There were three deer in a little clump. "Look at the one on the right." Angela looked, studied the deer on the right. "She's fat," Angela whispered. "Look at her belly. Watch it closely." Angela did, then she saw it. Something bumped her belly from the inside. The sun was just right, coming across the deer's gravid abdomen, and a kick bulged the fur momentarily. Angela's eyes widened and her mouth formed an O of surprise and delight. She lowered the binoculars and looked at her Daddy, eyes shining. She looked at the deer again, then raised the binoculars: she made a little sound of disappointment, for she'd rested the lenses in the snow and they were all wet-spotted now. Her expressive face went from beaming delight to abject sorrow; her Daddy put a finger to his lips and winked, then slipped the field glasses back inside his coat. He leaned close to her again, his muts-tache tickling her curls. "Did you see it?" He drew back and she nodded vigorously. "It was like Rosie-horse when she was pweg-nant," Angela whispered in reply. Her Daddy nodded. "Exactly like that." Angela's eyes went back to where she last saw the deer. "Can I pet it?" she asked hopefully. Linn's smile was broad and a little sad, a knowing Daddy-smile: "No, Princess, they would run the moment they saw us." "Oh." Angela raised up a little until she could just see over the snow-rise again, and saw the deer walking away, unconcerned. Esther had a tub of hot water ready when they got home and she insisted Angela take a nice hot bath. Her protest that Daddy was cold and wet, not her, was of no avail: she found herself dunked in the copper tub and vigorously soaped, for proper young ladies were clean young ladies, and besides her fingers and toes were cold, and whatever was she doing out in the snow in a dress, for heaven's sakes, and Angela replied that she watched a Rosie-deer with a thumper belly. Her Mommy, of course, did not understand.
  3. Linn Keller 12-29-10 "Where you fellas headed?" Jacob called cheerfully. "Miller's Hill!" a half-dozen voices chorused. Jacob turned in his saddle, squinted at the grade: "That's quite a hill!" "Yeah!" "It'll be fun!" "We oughta go fast!" -- young voices tumbled over one another in a cascade of happy enthusiasm. "Long walk up, though," Jacob observed. "Yeah, but it'll be worth it!" Jacob's eyes tightened as he recognized the youthful enthusiasm behind this winter day's fun: he picked up his lariat, shook it loose, tossed the tag end to the lead sled. "Make fast!" he called, "can you connect the second sled to the first?" Shortly they began laboring up the road that slanted up Miller's Hill: it was a long grade, the road turned at the bottom, a reflex angle, back onto itself, but as happy chance would have it, the road lacked a ditch or a bank at the bottom and indeed a runaway cart had sailed down the hill and out into the sizable meadow back in warm weather. Jacob reckoned the lads would have a long, fast ride, and be able to coast safely out into the open. They made the crest, and Jacob helped them stomp down a circle and build a fire: he set up a wind break of branches, smoothed snow into a semi-circular wall for a reflector, and helped them gather firewood: the lads set about this with speed and much wasted effort, but a great deal of vigor: all wished to take their turn on the downhill run. Jacob waited until the first sled made its streaking descent, the happy halloos drawn-out and echoing in the cold mountain air. He found himself grinning, and imagining little Joseph's first trip on a sled. "I'm gonna enjoy that," he said to no one in particular, and swung back into his saddle.
  4. If you are using Winchester...or another brand with a softer primer...try some Remington STS. They have a harder primer. I know of someone that has an expensive shotgun that couldn't hardly open it after firing using Winchester low noise low recoil. She switched to Remington STS...no more problems.
  5. Linn Keller 12-26-10 When it was possible, the Sheriff delighted in dining under his own roof, at his own table, with his family around him. Today was such a delightful day. The meal was fragrant and appetizing, the table well set; they'd sent their hired girl home to be with family for a few days, and Esther slipped her a little extra with the whisper, "Don't let my husband know!" -- and not five minutes later, Linn did the same, with the sotto voce admonishment, "Don't let Esther know!" -- they knew her family was having a difficult way of it, and it was their way of letting her help without it looking like charity. Esther was a very organized woman: she could run the railroad and manage its many facets and make it look easy; she ran her household with the same efficiency: the meal was prepared and set on the table in stages, each one dovetailing neatly with the other. The Sheriff knew there was more to this than met the eye. It was his experience that only those who were really, really good at something, made something look easy. Esther made it look easy. Angela wiggled impatiently in her chair, eyeing the pile of rolls on the plate, clearly wanting to seize one and bite into it, knowing it to be warm from the oven, steaming with fragrance, but she stayed her hand, for she was trying hard to be a Lady, or as best a Lady as a little girl could be. Esther swirled 'round the table to her chair, settled into her seat: Linn bowed his head, his voice rich and sonorous in the momentary hush as he gave thanks. After which he raised his head and looked at Angela. "Angela," he said, "who do we get to play Charge?" Angela laughed. "The boogler!" she exclaimed, and reached for a roll. It was a standing joke between the two of them: Angela had been plainly starved one day and fought her impulse to seize some edibles, her struggle so evident that her Daddy told her he was going to get a bugler to blow "Charge" so she would know when to dive in. "Bugler" became "boogler" -- at least for now, until a greater maturity cleared her pronunciation -- but for the moment, it sufficed. Conversation was sparse: not out of tension, or of dislike, but because Esther knew there was something on her husband's mind, and she knew that, for the moment, he was enjoying sitting at the table with his beloved ladies. Finally -- after consuming a shocking amount of comestibles -- for a skinny man, he ate a surprising amount! -- he leaned back with a contented sigh. "My tummy is smiling," he said, reaching for his wife's hand. "Thank you, my dear." "We got pumpkin pie!" Angela declared excitedly, her own full belly forgotten as she remembered dessert waiting on a side table. Her Daddy held up a forestalling hand. "Maybe later," he said, and Angela's face fell about three feet: laughing, he relented: Well, maybe a small piece," and Angela brightnened and clapped pink hands in delight, giving a little girl's quiet "Yaaay!" Linn helped his wife clear dishes and platters, and directly they were all seated before freshly sliced and served pie. Esther finally looked at her husband. "Did Sean find you?" she asked, her green eyes bright and knowing. Linn nodded. "He did." "Looks like he got you, too." The Sheriff touched his lips with the back of a finger. "He did that." Esther's look was concerned. "Is he all right?" Linn was silent for a long moment. "He will be." "Daisy didn't tell anyone," Esther said in a worried tone. "I know. He didn't either." "They went to Brother William and had him do the service. They have a Catholic cemetery behind his church." The Sheriff nodded. "Didn't know that." Esther's eyes dropped to the table top. "She should have told us." She looked at her husband, misery and understanding in her eyes. "She should have told me!" Linn nodded. "Maybe so." "Did he say when it was?" "No." He shook his head slowly. "I can figure about when it was --" "No, dear, it's past now." Esther shivered. "I wonder if they'll try again." Angela picked up the pie crust with thumb and forefinger and nibbled delicately at the finger crimps. "Why didn't she tell me?" Esther worried. The Sheriff smiled thinly. "He told me one time how he took an old biddy to task once. His brother died and this old bat scolded him for now showing a long face in public. He backed her against a wall with his language." "Oh, my," Esther murmured. "What did he say?" The Sheriff looked at Angela, bright-eyed and solemn as she regarded her Daddy. He cleared his throat, raised both eyebrows, considered his reply. "He said he did not parade his grief for her entertainment." Esther nodded. "My father said something similar." "I reckon they didn't feel like being fussed over." "What of Little Sean and Michael?" "Oh, they're fine. He was telling me young Michael climbed their Christmas tree." Esther's hand went to her mouth and Linn saw the laughter in her eyes. "Oh, no!" "Oh, yes," he nodded. "Twice!" Esther's eyes flicked toward their parlor and they tree she knew stood there. "Sean said he drove two nails in the wall and tied the tree back, but most of the bulbs were broken. Daisy had the Devil's own time getting the glass up so Michael would not find it." Esther laughed with a mother's understanding. "Bonnie told me about the twins falling asleep under the tree." She smiled at the picture Bonnie painted, describing her and Sarah's finding two pair of stockinged legs sticking out from under the decorated evergreen. "It seems they crawled under to look at the tree from underneath and fell asleep." The Sheriff's eyes crinkled at the corners and he nodded, picturing how that must have looked. The Sheriff pushed his dessert plate away slowly with one thumb. "My dear, thank you," he said quietly. "That was good." Esther looked around her husband, peering into the kitchen. "The water's hot," she said. "Time to wash dishes." Her brisk manner and speech returned and she was once again the efficient manager. It decreased her efficiency only a little to have a husband helping dry dishes and put them away.
  6. Linn Keller 12-26-10 The gloves were well padded, unusually so: Sean insisted on it and had them custom made, ordered in from Sullivan's gym in New York. It wasn't that the big Irishman was interested in sparing his scar-knuckled fists. It's that he wished to spare any sparring partners unnecessary damage. Boxing was a blood sport and participants not infrequently fought one another until bloody injury made the spectacle so gruesome the bout was called off -- unless one party or the other just plainly cold cocked the other. Sean regarded his opponent, gloves up, moving easily on the balls of his feet. The Sheriff did likewise. Both men were bare to the waist; they circled warily around each other in the privacy of the Sheriff's barn. Usually the Sheriff and his son sparred there, in a variety of fighting styles, and with a variety of simulated tools of ungentle pacification: today, though, it was knuckles. The arrangement was unusual in that the big Irishman had asked the Sheriff if he would do him the honor of a bout or three -- "just for practice, y'understand" -- and so it was just the pair of them. They were both warmed up: in fact, their bare torsos steamed in the cold air, and their breath hung in clouds as they exhaled powerfully. "Did ye notice the Parson wasna' his usual self?" Sean asked, then launched a right. The Sheriff dropped his head to the side, swatted the incoming forearm and took a counterpunch in his high ribs: staggering back, he bared his teeth, stepped back in. "I noticed." Sean tried the same punch and took a left to his wind that he never saw coming. The Sheriff barely had time to put up a blocking mitt: it wasn't enough, and Sean punched through the lawman's block: the Sheriff's own glove came back and flattened lips against even white teeth. Blinking back the stinging pain, the Sheriff waited, gloves up, ready. Sean stepped in. The Sheriff thrust himself quickly to the left, then suddenly to the right and hit a left-right-left to the big Irishman's belly and soft ribs. A fist grazed the side of his head and he scored a solid right to the Irishman's armpit. "Good," Sean grunted, backing up a pace and raising his gloves. The Sheriff raised his; they touched gloves, then wrapped their arms around each other and stood there for a moment. Each man had taken the other's measure: both were in pain, and each recognized the other as a warrior in his own right. "Ye're as fast as ye e'er were," Sean gasped, thumping the Sheriff on his shoulder, to which the Sheriff grunted "You hit like a Missouri mule," and they went over to the blanket covered hay bale and sat heavily. "Misfortune will weight a man's soul," Sean said, his accent more prominent, and the Sheriff knew he was troubled by more than he was letting on. He nodded, leaning elbows on knees, ignoring his aching ribs as best he could. He spat blood, bright and gleaming, to the straw covered floor, rubbed his lips with the back of a glove. That last blow had caught him for fair and for sure. "Now th' Parson ..." Sean leaned his own elbows and worked the bend out of his back -- "there's a mon I admire." The Sheriff nodded, turning his head a little, listening. "He an' Brother William." Sean's voice was distant and he touched his nose carefully. The Sheriff had given a good account of himself, all right. "The Parson was out all night." "Didn't know that." The Sheriff looked sharply at the big Irishman. "What happened?" "'Twas over't Carbon, a fire." "How bad?" Sean glared at the greying lawman. "'Twas no' good. They sent f'r th' Parson soon as it happened." The Sheriff worked his jaw a little. "Go on." Sean's eyes were haunted: old ghosts hovered just outside his vision, unseen but real, and he shivered. "The family Voormann ..." he began, and his voice trailed off: he hung his big head and shuffled one booted foot in the fragrant straw. "'Twas a two story house. I remember seein' it." He picked up a shaft of straw, turned it end for end between thumb and forefinger, dropped it. "They got out, th' husband an' wife an' their wee child." Sean's voice was tight, almost strained. "The mother went back in. "'Twas said her girls were screamin' t' death in th' upper bedroom. "She fought her way up th' stairs an' she got t' the daughters. "She had one under each arm an' started down th' staircase when it collapsed on 'em." The Sheriff had known Sean for some years: he'd known the man in joy and in sorrow, in laughter and in raging, furious anger: he'd never seen Sean's hands tremble before, and he knew this was not a good thing. Sean swallowed hard. The Sheriff looked away quickly, for he'd seen a streak of saltwater spill down one florid cheek. "She -- they -- " Sean swallowed again. "When th' coals were low enough they could start t' rake 'em away, they found what was left of 'em, fused int' one lump. "The husband ... God almighty, what th' man must'a felt! --they sent f'r the Parson, an' he was wi' the man all night long." The Sheriff nodded. "You've seen that before." Sean's eyes were bleak, the look of a strong and capable man who realized his own helplessness. "I was that man, once, back East. B'fore I was a fireman." He snorted, chuckled mirthlessly. "I joined th' Brigade th' nex' day an' I've fought th' dragon e'er since." He took a long, shivering breath. "Yon Parson was strong enough t' keep th' man from killin' himsel' an' I don't think he got a wink o' sleep in four an' twenty hours f'r the doin' of it." The Sheriff nodded, remembering how dark the man had been under the eyes. "Now you," Sean said, his mood changing abruptly, his hand squeezing the Sheriff's shoulder companionably, "I don't think yu' heard word one o' the Christmas sermon!" The Sheriff chuckled. "We heard o' the coats an' th' clothes," he said in a quiet and approving voice. "An' the other too." The Sheriff shook his head. "An' here I tried not to let my left hand know what my right hand did!" "When ye include th' deed free an' clear t' the ranch an' a note that says "Merry Christmas, it's all yours," Sean declared stoutly, "it's no' somethin' people will keep under their hat!" "I shoulda stuck to coats an' socks an' knit mittens!" the Sheriff complained good-naturedly. "There's somethin' else, isn't there?" he asked Sean, and Sean nodded, his face troubled. "Daisy lost th' child," he said in a hoarse whisper. The Sheriff sighed, nodding. He'd suspected as much, but there had been no announcement: he knew Sean would make mention of it in due time. He just didn't expect this would be the time. "She blamed hersel', Sheriff. Said she musta' been an evil woman t' be punished so." Sean squeezed his eyes shut, shook his head. "My fault it was, no' hers, an' I told her so. "She took m' face between her hands an' threatened to beat me wi' a hitch rail if I e'er said as much again!" The Sheriff stood, picked up his own shirt and Sean's as well: both men slipped into a little insulation, for they were both getting chilled. "I don't doubt she could, too," the Sheriff said with a small smile. "I've seen her temper." Sean grinned. "Ye've no' seen th' half o' the woman's temper!" he laughed, then melancholy flowed back into his eyes like fog off a quiet sea. "Th' Parson set with her an' listened, an' I don' know the words he spoke, but 'twas of comfort to her." The Sheriff twisted a little, one way, then the other: he frowned as his ribs settled back into place with rather ill grace. "She's a strong woman, ma Daisy," he said, and there was at once grief for their loss but admiration for his wife, and the Sheriff nodded. "Aye," he said. "She is that." Silence grew long between the two as the Sheriff shrugged slowly into his shirt and vest. "How you holdin' up, Sean?" the Sheriff asked, and at the answering silence, he added quietly, "It is not easy to lose a child. "No," Sean said, equally quietly. "It's no'." Sean's fingers fumbled with their task. The Sheriff cocked an eye toward the fire chief, who was buttoning up the bib front, red-wool shirt. "There is one thing." "Aye?" Sean thrust his shirt tail into his waist band, turned to face the Sheriff. "At church today," Linn asked. Did I snore?"
  7. Could be... Maybe check to see if hammers are rebounding to safty notch. Examine primers in fired hulls to see if they look excessively deep or marks where firing pins plowed out. Check firing pins to see if they have mushroomed or otherwise sticking. I seem to recall someone selling hardened replacement firing pins for these guns.
  8. Decide on whether you want to shoot Modern or Traditional. PM me. I may have a Colt frame or two.
  9. Tennessee Williams is correct about the anvil.... a junk anvil will work you to death. I found that out the hard way !! A good one is worth the money.
  10. Ha!!! Uh, yeah...know that. It of course was...still subjective. Phantom
  11. Your concerns should be taken to the MD
  12. The last time I computed the costs was before the Obama regime. Reloading saved me $40 a match, $80 when the son shot with me. The Dillon Square Deal paid for its of in a short time. Sold it and purchased a 650 XL, now I save money AND enjoy reloading.
  13. 357: Okay, yes he did. Notice that I am NOT on the trigger of that SxS. It's on a sofa static. MG
  14. Here I am being dense again. How does the size of the magazine tube have any effect on whether a bullet will accordion back into the case? Some people may have a feed problem because of the mag tube, but I do not. My feed problem is because when the bullet backs into the case a second cartridge follows the one already on the carrier. This second cartridge prevents the carrier from rising, thus the jam. In my original post, I stated that I cut about .050” off of the bottom of the resizing die in order for them to work on my Dillon 550. But in Levi Littleton’s pictures, it’s obvious that his dies are sizing his brass to a smaller diameter than mine are. His bullets are effectively expanding the brass where mine are not. What kind of dies are you using Levi? I had tried Starline brass before with poor results. But having 100 rounds of new Starline, I loaded them up to give them a test tomorrow. Also used the 30 Carbine expanding die on the Starline brass and the 100 rounds of RP brass as well. I’ve heard that some dies are made for loading 32-20 with .308” diameter bullets. I am not going to load .308 bullets for my 32-20’s but the sizing die might work better. Except for the cartridge length both brands of brass have similar diameters and wall thickness (.006” wall thickness). The further I get into this, the more I’m thinking it’s the dies. I’ll give y’all an update after some range time tomorrow.
  15. Doc noticed a horse lingering around his stable, he was saddled but not tied up. He went up to the horse and checked the saddlebags, there was release papers from Yuma prison with the name Gordon "Bull" Riddle on it. Doc had no idea who's horse it was but guessed it might have belonged to the man Rye gunned down in the saloon. Bull Riddle didn't sound familiar to him at all. He checked with Mayor Dawg and the mayor said." Bull Riddle's two sons were shot by the previous sheriff, Cole Alan, who left the town just before Sheriff Tyrel took over. It was also before I became mayor but I'd heard the story from some of the townsfolk. Bull was in prison for armed robbery. He did 6 years and heard his sons were shot by Sheriff Alan in a bank holdup. Bull had no idea Sheriff Alan left town and had taken a job as a Wells Fargo detective. He was drunk and determined to find revenge for his sons being killed. I've gotta tell Rye who this maniac was" said the Mayor. The Mayor went down to the saloon where Rye was hanging out talking to the piano player. He explained to Rye who the crazed shotgun wielding lunatic was and who he was after. "I know Cole Alan, he was a sheriff in Sandstone which is where I found the Steinway piano. I knew Cole from a few years ago before he became sheriff here. We were on a cattle drive together. I forgot all about that whole Bull Riddle incident. I heard about it when I first got here to Stone Creek" said Rye. He poured a drink for the the Mayor and told him about his leaving to join the Arizona Rangers. The Mayor agreed that it was a good opportunity for Rye. He had been kicking around pushing cattle and playing piano and doing a couple temporary deputy gigs here and there. This Ranger job sounded like some stability which was scarce in the west. If you landed a job you hung onto it. "Good for you Rye, I hope you'll come back from time to time if you can, don't you be forgettin' about us now" said the Mayor. Rye said, " Mayor, I've made some good friends here that I won't forget and I'll be back when I can. I still have a few loose ends to tie up before I leave so you''ll have to put up with me for a couple weeks yet". The Mayor smiled and held up his glass and said, "I'll drink to that".
  16. Fantastic match, worth coming too t his one from Nebraska
  17. Sent PM back. I will have to go check the chokes & length. They are either 26" or 28". I recollect that they are 3" chambers (Full & Mod?). I won't know until I get to town. MG PS Right now I'm looking for my cell phone. I have either lost (or possibly was swiped) my cell phone with all of my pics, etc.
  18. Hopefully you will be healed by then. Glad to hear you enjoyed it.
  19. Shoot went well. All 50 cartridges went boom. No real problems. The guns did seem to be binding a little more than usual. Not sure if that was the papers fault, probably caps. When I cleaned them, some debris washed out of the chambers. Overall, way better than handling loose powder. Maybe I could use a jag to clean the chambers between loadings, like the worm for a cannon
  20. I check all my AA shells before a match. The Super Sizer will fix not all but 9 out of 10.
  21. I've seen non-overlapping targets deemed too close for a "Clean" miss. That's the problem - subjective. Phantom
  22. And you know they had to use Wikipedia to find out who they were. Kinda like doing a cover and not knowing it was a cover or who made it famous.
  23. While APP does not rust my guns, the residue buildup can stop them from functioning. After every day at a major match the buildup gets washed off. It is removed quite easily.
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